


scary monsters (and super creeps).

by uncaringerinn



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Body Horror, M/M, Stalking, Werewolf Billy Hargrove, also mild, but it's mild?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:20:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27263380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uncaringerinn/pseuds/uncaringerinn
Summary: there's a wolf in the woods of hawkins.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 8
Kudos: 60





	scary monsters (and super creeps).

**Author's Note:**

> just to clarify, this is not part of the [what deep roots you have](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14484051/chapters/33459312) universe. this is a standalone, separate fic that's been sitting dead in my google docs for almost two years.

There’s a wolf in the woods of Hawkins. 

It wanders, alone. Creeps on empty nights when the moon hangs high and full in the hazy sky, looking for special flesh and bone, blood and marrow that sings _just right_ , would taste weighty and savory in the dip of its tongue.

But the woods hold the wrong breed of life, the wrong type of feast; the wolf eats but stays starving, lets hunger gnaw persistent under its rippling skin, broil warm in its gut. 

The full moon wanes and the night fades, but the wolf still waits.

After all, patience makes the predator. 

\--

College kids all smell the same to him; stale cigarette smoke, shitty weed, old beer. They smell like muted sweat covered in heavy-handed spice, fresh skin dipped in fake floral-honey. 

It’s bland, unrefined.

Steve Harrington isn’t any different, not really, but Billy still manages to pick him out in a crowd. Can smell him from the back row on the first day of fall semester. 

At the time, Billy didn’t even know his name; Harrington was just some up-tight nerd draped in too-big sweaters, wearing ridiculously large glasses that had an annoying tendency to slip down the bridge of his perfect nose, always had Billy staring, entranced. Harrington sat in the middle of the lecture hall, to the far-right. Always gnawing on the end of his mechanical pencil while his brow pinched at whatever the professor was teaching, perpetually confused.

The whole _ensemble_ is endearing, almost _adorable_ , and after the first week of classes Billy had slowly migrated from his perch at the back of the class to the seat directly behind Steve. It feels inevitable, the way he looks over Steve’s shoulder, so close to breathing down his neck. Eyes Harrington’s mouth, wishing those pretty white teeth were chewing into him, making him bloody and angry, so he could retaliate in kind. 

And this close, Harrington smells clean, just soap and water, deodorant mild and inoffensive. He smells like an empty field and a wayward breeze, something Billy could drench in his own scent, scrub it into Steve’s pores and let him loose, let him carry Billy wherever he goes. 

Billy thought Harrington would be easy; a smile, a wink, some feeble, unimaginative compliment to make the other boy blush and buckle at the knees. But Harrington’s a hard sell, offering only rude disinterest or bored stares every time Billy so much as says _hello._

Despite that, Harrington’s the kind of sweet that makes Billy’s mouth water, makes Billy hard in his jeans as Steve shuffles through his notes, all color-coded, tabbed and highlighted, raises his hand to ask painfully dumb questions, jiggles his knee through the entire class, because he can’t sit fucking _still._

Billy’s _enamored_ , tries every goddamn lecture to get at him. Leans forward, taps the top of Steve’s seat to get his attention, says something shitty like, “Nice sweater, baby. Matches your eyes.”

And Steve always swivels around, pencil past his lips where Billy wants to be, scoffs, “No thanks,” before rolling his eyes and ignoring Billy for the rest of the class. It’s cyclic, drags on like this into the beginning of spring semester, where they share yet another course together.

It’s frustrating; Billy’s growing tired of all chase and no gain. Steve Harrington belongs to him; that’s a fact, set-in-stone, the way nature fucking _intended_. He can hear the way Harrington’s heart slams against his ribcage every time Billy so much as sits behind him, can hear the soft little intake of breath when Billy sleazily offers to help him with his homework. 

Knowing Harrington’s into it makes it _worse_ , makes it harder to behave, blend in. It would be so much easier if Steve would just _play ball_ , fucking cooperate, but he doesn’t and he isn’t and.

Billy’s so fucking _hungry_ for it. 

\--

It happens in late-January; a full moon wild enough to make him howl, make him unhinged, send him stalking the forest for something warm and wet and ripe. He laves at peeling skin to reveal the coarse, unnatural hair beneath, repeats the process when raw-fresh flesh comes layering up to keep him human. His joints become loose, slide easy and dislocate, trying to make room for a larger creature, one not quite ready to be born. The effort of trying to keep all of his pieces together only serves to make him more irritable, more desperate. Wild.

For hours, he lingers and watches, writhes ugly in the dirt when things fall apart. The change remains incomplete; he shuffles between the trees while he’s lucid, finally finds what he’s been waiting for. 

From the shadows of the forest, Billy can see the parking lot of the local corner store, dead-lonely on the slow Sunday night except for a single car, parked outside the safe halo of the streetlight.

A lone figure emerges from the quaint little building, moves unrushed to the one car in the lot. The scent is a beacon, familiar, homey. Clean and uninteresting. 

Harrington is all alone and Billy can finally have him for himself.

He slinks from the woods, silent. Skirts the edges of the streetlamp, shakes as his threads threaten to unravel once more.

“Harrington,” Billy soothes, voice rippling and rough, smile oily-slick. His gums feel sore, swollen, sharp edges begging to be set free.

Harrington swings around, snarl halfway curling at his lips before his mouth parts, exhale steaming as Steve struggles to process what he’s seeing. And Billy must look strange, in a coat with no shirt, jeans rolled up to his ankles, bare feet. It’s the middle of winter in Indiana, pavement frozen, but Billy can’t really feel it. He’s sweating, hot with fever, caging Steve against the car. 

“Billy.” It’s whispered on a choked breath, eyes wide behind fogged lenses, fear-flush splattered pretty against his cheeks and down his throat. His tone is an uneasy mix of disgust and confusion. “What are you doing? Are you sick?” 

The laugh that tears from Billy’s throat is wrong, distorted. Sounds more like a growl or a warning. “Been thinking about you; wanted to see you.”

Steve’s tongue darts out, licks hesitantly at his lips. He’s scared; Billy can _smell_ it, can smell the curiosity that swims with it, how it seeps out the pores of his peach-chilled skin.

But Harrington acts so _cold_.

“Think you need to back up, Billy,” Steve says, leaning hard against the driver side door, as far from Billy as he can manage. “Think you should leave.”

Copper blooms across Billy’s tongue; his jaws ache, teeth cutting heavy and huge. Claws sprout at the end of his fingertips, jagged. Over his shoulder, he chances a look at the bloated moon, watches as it bleeds against black sky. 

“I don’t know why you think I would _like_ you-”

A sickening _crack_ sounds from Billy’s neck as he snaps his focus back to Steve. Billy’s hand shoots out, grasps Harrington by the throat, pushes him against the solid surface of the car. He leans in, tongue sliding out to drag wet over his own chin. “Don’t know why you think you can _lie_ to me, that you think you can _hide_ it.”

Steve coughs when Billy releases him, gasps on the inhale. He looks at Billy like he’s seen a ghost, a myth. Something unreal. 

It’s a whimper, barely makes a sound, “Your _teeth_.”

Billy’s grin is nothing but knives, stained bloody and shiny, tongue hanging sloppy. Steve’s heart slaps, loud; Billy feels like it’s already settling in the hollow of his hungry stomach.

Ungentle, Steve places a hand on Billy’s bare chest, shoves him away. Only it doesn’t work, not really. The skin just sloughs off at the touch of callous fingers, shows the creature shaking beneath.

With Billy’s flesh in his hand, swollen-red moon watching, Steve screams.

And the monster whispers, “ _Run_.”

**Author's Note:**

> okay, i know this isn't set in october, and it's _technically_ not halloween material but it's scary and spooky to me, and i'm tired of it sitting in the dark getting all dusty. 
> 
> also to clarify, this is it. i am not currently working on continuing this piece, nor do i have plans to. i mean you never know, but don't get your hopes up, guys. sorry :/
> 
> i'm on tumblr as [desert-dino](https://desert-dino.tumblr.com/). you know, if anyone is interested in sporadic reblogs featuring the soothing aesthetic of the desert. 
> 
> (p.s. kayla, sunshine, if you see this, you know i'd work on it with you in a heartbeat. just lemme know ;) ) 
> 
> thanks for reading! title from david bowie's song of the same name.


End file.
